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Not many people can boast a photo of their grandmother posing for kiddiporn.

Angela Carter

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Angela Carter
Age: 51 †
Born: 1940
Born: May 7
Died: 1992
Died: February 16
Author
Journalist
Linguist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Translator
Writer
Eastbourne
Sussex
Angela Olive Stalker Carter
Angela Olive Carter
Angela Olive Stalker
Angela Olive Pearce
Many
People
Posing
Photo
Boast
Grandmother

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She herself is a haunted house. She does not possess herself her ancestors sometimes come and peer out of the windows of her eyes and that is very frightening. from The Lady of the Haunted House
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Soon, nostalgia will be another name for Europe.
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And, oh God, in my misspent youth as a housewife, I, too, used to bake bread, in those hectic and desolating days just prior to the woman's movement, when middle-class women were supposed to be wonderful wives and mothers, gracious hostesses.... I used to feel so womanly when I was baking my filthy bread.
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I think I want to be in love with you but I don't know how.
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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged. We watch so many old movies our memories come in monochrome.
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Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.
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Comedy is tragedy that happens to other people.
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Stars on our door, stars in our eyes, stars exploding in the bits of our brains where the common sense should have been
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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged.
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She stood lost in eternity wearing a crazy dress, watching the immense sky.
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The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?
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Out of the frying pan into the fire! What is marriage but prostitution to one man instead of many? No different!
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In a world where women are commodities, a woman who refuses to sell herself will have the thing she refuses to sell taken away from her by force
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And each stroke of his tongue ripped off skin after successive skin, all the skins of a life in the world, and left behind a nascent patina of shining hairs. My earrings turned back to water and trickled down my shoulders I shrugged the drops off my beautiful fur.
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What would the daughters of the rich do with themselves if the poor ceased to exist?
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Midnight, and the clock strikes. It is Christmas Day, the werewolves birthday, the door of the solstice still wide enough open to let them all slink through.
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One beast and only one howls in the woods by night.
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Among the monsters, I am well hidden who looks for a leaf in a forest?
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At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.
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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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